


Upon That Night, When Fairies Light

by Fire_Sign



Series: Snips and Snails and Squirrelly Tales [3]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Halloween, Superstitions and Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:16:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween, birthdays, and five women (and one little boy) who loved Jack Robinson. Or how traditions shape who we are, even if we don't believe them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon That Night, When Fairies Light

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lot of fun to write. It stemmed from a discussion on Tumblr about Jack's birthday, as the DI Jack Appreciation Society on Facebook had declared October 31, 1892 to be his birthday. As Halloween is my favourite holiday and the birthday of a family member, I decided to run with it. I don't know how much of a thing Halloween is in Australia (my primary association is a friend who complains every year about the increasing American influence regarding trick-or-treating), but since it's origins are Scottish I gave Jack a Scottish mother and let it all shake out.
> 
> I could make a huge number of notes about the traditions behind the story, but for simplicity's sake I'll keep them (relatively) minimal.
> 
> Scottish names were fun. Mairi and Lilias are both Scottish names, Jamesina is one of the many feminisation of male names that was popular in Scotland, and Alec is a Scottish nickname for Alexander. Guising (or galoshing) is the origin of trick-or-treating, which was usually accompanied by the recitation of a song or poem. Neep lanterns are turnip lanterns, the original and more common alternative to pumpkin jack-o-lanterns. The nuts thing is a completely true tradition; there was also the idea of pulling stalks, where the stalk would tell you the height and shape of your true love, and dirt attached to the root was indicative of wealth. I did not include the latter. The pork law was the Witchcraft Act of 1735 and did exist; it was only repealed in the... 1950s? The title and Jack's quote at the end is the opening line from Robert Burns' poem "Halloween".
> 
> On a non-tradition note, the Phrack baby (or rather, Phrack toddler) does share a name with another writer's version. This is complete coincidence (not the only one, actually!), but I couldn't bear to rename him. And many thanks to SarahToo for being a second set of eyes on this.

**Mairi Robinson**

Jack Robinson was five years old the first time he realised that most children's birthdays didn't feature neep lanterns, ghost stories, and careful recitation of poetry in exchange for treats. He questioned it, as he was inclined to do; his mother explained that it was a piece of home she had brought with her from Scotland, which was so far away she would never see it again. She took down the atlas from his father's study, showing him both Melbourne and the location of the small town near Inverness where she had spent the first twenty-three years of her life. The only thing she loved more than Hallowe'en was Hogmanay.

That year she included him in every step of the process, from food preparation to decorations. Eager to fulfill his newfound responsibilities, Jack was a willing pupil who absorbed every step with the feverish enthusiasm reserved for the very young. There were a handful of Scottish people in their Richmond neighbourhood, and the children always banded together to go guising from door to door at participating houses, faces blackened with soot or wearing masks made from worn material their mothers had set aside. Jack and his older brother were both desired members in these bands, their recitations of Shakespeare or Robert Burns always a huge hit that led to extra fruit and even the occasional sweet.

The Robinsons held a bonfire in their backyard, where the adults would gather as the evening wore on and the children played until they fell asleep where they were. As the fire died down and the neighbours left, carrying their sleeping children, Jack's father would light all the fires in the house with a flame taken from the bonfire. Then they would gather in the sitting room and talk or sing or read aloud until the clock struck midnight.

Even as a child he did not _believe_ in spirits, his father's admonishments to search for evidence stronger than his mother's rituals and habits. When he reached his teenage years, he would find that his mother's foolish superstitions were a source of embarrassment. As an adult he would allow them to pass by without acknowledgement most years, finding he had no time for children's games and silly things. But as he sat on his mother's lap on the evening of his fifth birthday, warm and content and bursting with pride that she had allowed him to help carve the turnip for the first time, his entire life was in that room.

Jack was home.

 

**Jimmy MacDougal**

Jack spent his twenty-fifth birthday in a Belgian field hospital with a hole in his leg (which was not serious) and a hole in his heart (which was, though he couldn't bring himself to care); neither was the actual reason for his presence, which was the attending doctor's deep concern of a fever he continued to have.

The fever, he reasoned, was why he was seeing ghosts. His grandfather Robinson, his childhood dog Jules, countless soldiers he had served with and outlived; all of them stood around his bed in a silent vigil. Two of them--Stephen Brown and John Adler--moved aside to allow another to approach him. He didn't immediately recognise this one, a small, dark-haired woman with a pragmatic air.

"Up we get, laddie!" she said in a think Scottish brogue.

"Ma?" he asked. But it made no sense; his mother was alive, or had been the last time he'd heard from his family; the fact that he expected some semblance of order to his fevered dreams likely said a great deal about him.

"Feart not," said the woman, grabbing his wrist.

With sudden clarity, Jack realised that the imagined ghost was, in fact, a nurse. In the same moment his hallucinations faded away, unable to battle both his natural skepticism and the presence of other people. Jack gave the woman an apologetic look.

"I thought I was dreaming," he explained, then realised it sounded as if he was flirting. "Not about you! Though I'm sure you're very nice. I mean..." he groaned. "I thought you were one of the ghosts from my dreams, and my mother is the only Scotswoman I could think of. She was a nurse, so even the uniform fit."

The woman gave him an amused looked.

"Well, it is the nicht for spirits," she said eventually. She wrote something down on his medical chart. "And your birthday too, by a keek of things."

"Is it really?" Jack asked, disinterested. "I've been rather preoccupied the last few years."

The nurse laughed, and Jack decided that she was not nearly so dour as he had first thought.

"Nae time for guising wi' mortar fire, I suppose. At least not the sort of guising we did back home," she said. Then she leaned towards him with a conspiratorial grin. "But I do have a bit of chocolate to share with a fellow Scotsman on his birthday. A wee bit of home on a mirk night. I'll come back in an hoor when my shift is over."

It was closer to an hour and a half when she returned, uniform replaced by a clean dress. In her hands was a small hunk of chocolate wrapped in paper.

"Should you be here?" Jack asked.

"It's a quiet nicht, nobody will whinge if the day's hero has a wee bitta company."

Jack scoffed, the idea that he was a hero earning a negative visceral reaction from him. There were too many glassy-eyed corpses crowding his memory for it to sit well.

"Hero? Is 'not dying' all it takes to get the title nowadays?"

The nurse shrugged.

"Jes' repeating what I hear. Doesnae make a lick of difference to me. I'm Jamesina McDougal, by the way, though you'd do jest as well to call me Jimmy."

She sat in a nearby chair, looking completely at ease despite the surroundings. She unwrapped the chocolate and handed him a small piece; she popped another into her own mouth. Jack eyed the chocolate with suspicion before tentatively tasting it. It was delicious, far better than he remembered, and he savoured the flavour on his tongue.

"So," said Jimmy when the square was gone. She broke off another piece and handed it over. "Yoor mother was Scots...."

For many years afterwards, Jack could not taste chocolate without thinking of the vivacious Jimmy McDougal, or the infinite kindness she had shown him when he needed it most.

 

**Rosie Robinson**

On his thirty-first birthday, Sergeant Jack Robinson was scheduled to work the night shift. He emerged from his bedroom, half dressed in his uniform, to the smell of Rosie's cooking. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room for a moment, admiring his wife of nearly ten years as she worked. She startled when she saw him, gave a small laugh.

"Jack! I didn't hear you get up," she greeted him. "Happy birthday, darling. I've made your favourite for tea; pork chops and green beans."

"Thank you," Jack said, even though the idea made him flinch involuntarily. Due to some absurd law back in Scotland, pork consumption was forbidden on Halloween; no such law existed in Australia, but his mother had always refused to serve it. Rosie's upbringing, so full of stiff formalities and religious sensibilities, would have had no such prohibitions. He took his seat at the table, berating himself for being ridiculous; it was no doubt the nerves.

The day's newspaper had been left on the table for him, and he read through it. There were several articles on the dissent within the Victorian police, half of it startling accurate and the rest of it absolute rubbish. They had one thing certain though--tonight was the beginning of a strike, and Jack did not relish the fallout.

Rosie tsked over his shoulder when she saw the article.

"My father won't protect you," she warned, placing his plate in front of him.

"I know," Jack sighed. "But this whole thing is absolutely unconscionable..."

"And you wouldn't be the man I married if you sat back and let it happen," finished Rosie. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know. I've already told Father that I don't know anything more than the rumours he's aware of, but I'll be taking your side no matter where you fall."

Jack squeezed his wife's hand in thanks. Her loyalty was far more than he deserved, her patience seemingly infinite. They both knew that he was not the man she had married, but perhaps he could be again one day. She dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

"Now eat up. There's cake as well."

 

**Concetta Strano**

By sheer coincidence, Jack's thirty-sixth birthday was also his day off. Which left him at loose ends; going into the station ran the risk of young Collins making a fuss--the boy's keenness was admirable but tiresome--and there was little else to do. He puttered in the garden for awhile, read a book, chatted to his neighbour-cum-housekeeper Mrs. Norris, and resolutely did not think of Rosie's recent request. By early evening he found that his patience was gone, and he decided to go out for dinner; in the past few months he found himself, for the first time in years, beginning to crave the presence of other people.

Strano's was quiet when he arrived, the only diners a table of nonnas chatting.

"Gianni!" called Concetta Strano, as beautiful as always. He was quite fond of the young widow, and regretful that the investigation into her husband's death had stalled. "It is so nice to see you! Are you here for dinner or...?"

There was a slight hint of hopefulness in her eyes. Jack shook his head regretfully.

"Just dinner, I'm afraid."

The disappointment on her face passed quickly, and she ushered him to his usual table with a smile.

"Sit! Sit!"

Jack took his place, taking several minutes to peruse the menu placed in front of him by Vincenzo. Concetta left to hang his hat and coat up.

"What would you suggest?" he asked when she returned to the table. "I suppose a birthday is as good a reason as any to try something new."

He winced as he said it; he had no intention of drawing attention to himself, but the detail had slipped out.

"It is your birthday? I will arrange everything," she said, beaming at him. She filled a wine glass from a bottle he hadn't noticed. "Just sit. Have a drink."

She came and went throughout the evening, always with another delicious plate of food. In quieter moments she would sit for awhile to talk, her laughter and kindness drawing more and more details from him. She seemed intrigued by his mother's superstitions in particular, and Jack found himself elaborating with great vigour. One in particular seemed to amuse her.

"That I can arrange, Gianni," she said with a smile. "Excuse me."

When she returned, she carried an extra plate which she placed in front of one of the unoccupied chairs.

"There. For the spirits of those long past come to visit. We do that too. Italians."

She smiled again, ducking her head slightly at the admission. Not for the first time Jack realised that he admired her greatly; her own husband had been dead for only a few months, yet she had spent her evening thinking of him. She really was a remarkable woman.

Jack ate slowly, lingering over every fresh offering. He did not realise the time until he was the last patron in the restaurant.

"I'm sorry, I must be delaying your own meals," he apologised as he stood.

"No matter," said Concetta. "It has been nice to see you."

Jack reached for his wallet, but Concetta reached out to stop him.

"No, this is our gift to you. To say thank you for all you have done, for all your kindness."

Jack paused for a moment. It was too generous to accept, but he could see no way to decline without insulting the family. His choice was made for him when Concetta slipped away and returned quickly, carrying his hat and coat. She helped him into the items, brushing dirt from the lapel as she did so, then kissed his cheek.

"Happy birthday, Gianni."

 

 

**Phryne Fisher**

"I really am sorry, Jack, but Lilias and Alec always hold a huge bash for Halloween. If you'd told me it was your birthday I could have begged off and arranged something a little more intimate," Phryne said as they pulled up to her friends' country estate. It was dark, but all the windows were lit in welcome, and Jack could smell a bonfire from somewhere around the corner.

"It's fine, Miss Fisher. My mother would be no doubt delighted to hear that I was experiencing a proper Scottish Halloween," he said, then added wryly. "Even if it is in England."

"Was your mother Scottish then?" Phryne asked as they got out of the car.

"Oh yes, and as superstitious as they come."

She regarded him carefully over the bonnet.

"That seems unlikely," she finally said, her voice laced with unasked questions.

"My skepticism is all my father's doing," Jack said.

"Ahh, another layer of the enigmatic Jack Robinson laid bare," said Phryne with a grin. "Are you still refusing to tell me how you got here so quickly?"

He had been in London for a week; when he had first arrived at the docks with no more than a telegram the day before she had--after the first initial impulse to snog him senseless--demanded to know how he had arrived so soon. It was not actually an interesting story, but in a fit of mischievousness he had challenged her to figure it out herself. So far she had not.

"You aren't admitting _defeat_ , are you, Miss Fisher?"

She pursed her lips in irritation.

"Absolutely not. I just thought that you might enjoy the forfeit. Oh, there's Alec!"

A man had emerged from the house, and Phryne waved enthusiastically. Introductions were made, and Jack followed them into the house with only the slightest reluctance.

Alec Begbie and his sister Lilias proved to be excellent hosts, providing a dizzying array of entertainments from music and dancing to children's party games adapted to the audience. Jack found that their celebrations were both familiar and foreign--his mother had certainly not done dookin apples in tubs of _champagne_ \--but were a great deal of fun either way.

Towards the end of the evening Jack and Phryne found themselves by the bonfire with several other couples; the riotous atmosphere had settled into something far more contemplative and peaceful. He watched the firelight cast shadows on her face, marveling that she had somehow chosen to align herself with him.

"You're watching me," Phryne said quietly, not breaking her gaze at the flames.

"I am," he confirmed with a small smile.

Across the fire, Lilias produced a basket full of nuts.

"Take one and toss it in," she directed.

"Oh no," Jack objected. "There are some traditions that I'm quite happy to never see again."

"Come on, Jack. It's all a bit of fun!"

"You have a very peculiar view of fun, Miss Fisher," he said dryly, but still selected a nut. Phryne chose one as well, then linked her arm around his.

"Ready?"

The tossed at the same time. The nuts smoldered together quietly in the flames, and there was several cheers from the other guests.

"What?" Phryne asked, her brow furrowing slightly in confusion.

"Do you really not know?" countered Lilias with a laugh.

"No. I'm usually elsewhere at this part of the evening."

"The nuts are for young lovers," Jack explained. "It's meant to foretell the outcome of the relationship. _These_ nuts have just promised a peaceful journey."

"Right," said Phryne with a laugh, cuddling in closer. "As if that would ever happen."

 

**Anthony Fisher-Robinson**

Jack sat at the kitchen table in Wardlow, drinking his morning coffee and reading the newspaper. Mr. Butler had cooked him breakfast--Jack could no longer remember how he had survived bachelorhood--and then disappeared on some vague errand. Most likely one of Phryne's surprises. His quiet meal was interrupted by a sudden clattering, and he looked up from the paper to find Anthony staring at him, the child astride a wooden hobby horse and still wearing his pyjamas.

"Hello daddy," said the three year old, eyes wide. "It your bir'day."

"It is."

"Nanny Mawee sayed it..." Anthony's face screwed up in concentration as he tried to remember exactly what Jack's mother had said. "Halloyeen?"

"Did she now?" Jack asked, setting aside the newspaper completely. "Nanny Mairi was right."

A sudden impulse struck him, and he stood up.

"How would you like to help me with a very important task?" he asked, clearing the table.

The boy nodded eagerly. Jack retrieved a turnip from the pantry.

"Sit there," he said, and Anthony scrambled onto the chair with a giggle. "We're going to give this turnip a funny face."

Hollowing and carving a turnip was far more difficult than Jack remembered, and after several minutes he was tempted to admit defeat. The trusting eyes of his son were the only thing that stopped him.

"Y'know," said a soft voice from the kitchen door. "I hear the Americans use pumpkins for that."

Phryne had come down, wrapped in her favourite silk dressing gown and her hair still mussed from bed, and Jack's heart fluttered in his chest at the sight. He still could not quite believe that she had chosen him, and had chosen to place that ring on her finger.

"It would probably be easier, Miss Fisher," Jack admitted with a grimace. "But it would hardly be authentic. You're up early."

"It's your birthday, Jack!" Phryne said, sounding vaguely indignant. "I thought I would spend time with you. On second thought, however, I find that I have not had nearly enough coffee to deal with... whatever this is."

She gestured to the mess spread across the kitchen table, then staggered over to the stove to the still hot pot of coffee left by Mr. Butler. She poured herself a cup.

"So you boys have fun, and I will go hide in the parlour until a more reasonable hour."

On the way back out of the kitchen, she stopped to give them both a kiss on the cheek. When she was gone, he turned back to Anthony with a grin.

"Right. Try to repeat after me: _Upon that night, when fairies light_..."

Jack was home.


End file.
